I’ve spent an incredible amount of time sitting by/staring out of windows and so it is reminiscent of those moments we spend with ourselves — putting pieces of ourselves together, tracing our cracks, or picking them apart. I hope the thoughts and stories I share here make you think, or at least make you feel something at 3 am in the middle of a midsummer’s storm.

A bit about me —

I write things and am based in Dhaka. I spend my spare time trying to keep the plants in my care alive and feeding birds on the balcony. …


June and July 2021 — The months have melted and become stuck together, it’s now difficult to find any sign of time passing by. It is as if one has been dropped, without the ceremony and dignity of transitions, right in the middle of hell. Where hell if one of those stories about living through the same day over and over again until it leaves behind only the husk of a being. But this is not hell, one will find respite around the corner. There is the way the sun shines at 7am, the quiet on a Friday afternoon which…


I tried, but I am going to accept that these entries will occur in a bubble outside the space-time continuum. Regularity is a myth, at least for now.

May 2021 — A struggle with attempting to put down memories on paper and coming to terms with silences. This month was entirely made of chaos, both outside and inside my mind.

I spent a lot of time navigating around guilt, love, remorse, and sensations I don't have names for. This happens naturally when anything related to home comes front and centre in my head. I’ve tried to make meaning from memories…


We rarely speak about our relationships with our pets in my household (and I assume, most South Asian households). They teach us more about ourselves and the world around us — especially when it comes to our paradoxes and hypocrisy - than we care to admit. So this is in their memory.

The sun burned down on the courtyard, heating its red brick floor and if you squint hard enough, you could see steam rising off of the places where Puka had peed or knocked down the water buckets. He was sleeping at my feet now, he had tired himself…


Excerpt from a short story I had submitted to an anthology by local writers and editors in Dhaka, Bangladesh titled “Disconnect” in 2017

I loved the world I saw from my window, I think that was where I first began to love the city. I thought of it as my own share of Dhaka’s skies — a towering expanse of blues, purples, and grays dotted with trees and modestly-sized buildings, beyond which one could sense a different kind of world under construction. In summer, when the sky was clear and the electricity was out — we could see the stars…


Journal entries in this space are going to be random pieces of thoughts I’ve grappled with every month or so. The looming covid outbreaks and constant lockdowns mean that there is no other way to do this but sit down with them and let them pour out.

April 2021 — An obsession with brilliant sun-burnt creepers and a creeping eye allergy

I feel resentful. I’ve spent — well, I’ve wasted — two full days waiting for words to come out so I can at least make a pretense of a story. Make something. Do something worthwhile instead of sitting in this silence. But all I can do is feel the resentment as it prods around my chest; underlying anger brimming up at the thought of having to clean the kitchen (again). There is a world outside of myself that I am putting off. Lethargic, unmotivated dumb, slow…


For all the prayers I left half said or unsaid.

“It’s almost time for Maghrib.” Nanu says, her voice on the phone gives away some of the hollowness with which she looks at the world nowadays. “I’ll leave you to your prayers then.” I tell her, “I hope you will say your prayers. It’s a crucial night,” she says. I say my goodbyes with a sense of resignation.

It’s Shab-e-Barat tonight, I look out of the window as a force of habit now and again, searching for candles glowing on surrounding balconies. I know they won’t be there, as if…

ধূসর জানালা | Grey Windows

This is a personal archive of stories, opinions, and observations based on memories — both lost and ingrained, collective histories/silences and whims.

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